To write on cricket tha wants to watch it

All Flesh Is Grass

A group of American teenagers have foolhardily agreed to spend a night in Market Harborough cemetery for a bet.

As they go about their teenagerly activities, all seems well … except that from time to time one of them claims to have heard a sort of click-clicking noise, as if someone were cutting a grass verge (Chill, Mary-Lou, it’s only the wind in the sassafras trees) – another is sure she can smell new-mown grass.

As they settle down for the night and extinguish their campfire, from the deepest recesses of the graveyard – from behind a monument to a Symington perhaps – comes the sound of a motor starting up and then … a hooded figure – his eyes blazing – looms into view in a cloud of grass cuttings. He lowers his hood and we see that it’s the GRIM REAPER – clad in a Market Harborough Town Council hi-visibility vest – and riding a lawnmower!!

They are all cut to ribbons (note to self: check plausibility of this).

THE END.

Any film producers wanting to take out an option on this scenario please contact me at the usual address. Should be good for three or four sequels, I’d say.